by Stone, Kyla
With the Berretta in both hands, carried low, finger off the trigger, she moved toward the trees. She didn’t want to panic fire and hit Milo or Ghost.
Three reeking, overfull outhouses stood twenty yards ahead of her. Past them to the right, a twenty-foot section of the chain-link fence had been flattened by a giant felled hickory tree.
After leaping the log and crossing the fence, she entered the forest. Deep shadows enveloped her, the temperature dropping several degrees.
Her footsteps crunched loud in the sudden stillness. No birds chirped from the naked branches arcing above her head. No squirrels or chipmunks scurried through piles of dead leaves or darted across melting snowdrifts.
The familiar sounds of people faded away as she traveled further from the fairgrounds and deeper into the woods.
Another movement between the trees, deep in the shadows. Dark and furtive. It was low to the ground, and fast. Some sort of animal.
Dog, her brain registered.
The thought didn’t calm her growing apprehension.
A shadow streaked to her left. To her right, a twig cracked. She whipped toward each sound, adrenaline spiking, palms going damp.
A chill crept up her spine. It didn’t sound like Ghost. Wasn’t Ghost.
There were dogs out here. Not the friendly sort, but the hungry, desperate, half-wild kind. Her heart rate kicked up a notch.
She had the distinct impression of being hunted.
During the long brutal winter, most pets had starved rather than harm their owners. She’d seen it a hundred times in the abandoned homes she’d scavenged, dogs remaining loyal to their beloved owners even as they wasted away to skin and bone, even as they perished.
Some lucky ones could hunt for themselves, like Ghost, or were blessed with owners who’d provided for them, like Gran and her menagerie of cats.
A small percentage had escaped their fences or chains and went feral, forming ragged packs that roamed the outskirts of town, ravaging garbage dumps, breaking into pens and snatching chickens. A few had attacked and bitten people.
Last week, a pack in Stevensville had attempted to drag off a toddler who’d wandered too far from her parents.
Starvation had hardened them; they were unrecognizable as family pets. Desperate for food and too domesticated to hunt small game, they’d become bolder and more aggressive with every passing week.
Quinn pitied the dogs, but she also knew better than to underestimate them. Instinct screamed at her to get back to the safety of the fairgrounds.
If the dogs were hunting her, they were also hunting Milo.
She couldn’t leave until she found him.
“Milo!” she called again, drawing attention to herself but desperate to find him. “Where are you?”
Being quiet wouldn’t help. The dogs could smell her. They knew where she was.
The brown trunks and leafless branches blended with the damp, muddy ground. The colors bled together, making it hard to distinguish lurking figures in the underbrush.
Gusts of wind blew through the trees, shadows wavering, branches scraping against each other. A shadow moved unlike the rest—low and slinking.
Whipping around, she glimpsed mottled fur and the swish of a brown tail whipping between two maple trees.
A growl drew her attention. Ahead and to the right, further into the woods. She spun toward each new threat, gun up, hands trembling.
Another growl followed the first. Then another.
A flurry of barking shattered the air. Then a scream. Milo.
Quinn broke into a run.
25
Hannah
Day Eighty-Nine
“How about a trade?” Hannah asked.
Dominique West crossed her considerable arms across her chest and eyed Hannah. “You look like a lightweight. Most lightweights can’t handle the quality of our moonshine. I mean, it’s 160 proof, practically liquid fire.”
Hannah shrugged good-naturedly. “It’s not for me.”
“Oh?” Dominique grinned, held up a mason jar sloshing with liquid, and took a hardy gulp. She sighed with pleasure and wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. “Now that’ll put some hair on your chest. How much do you want? I’m trading five rounds per jar, or eight rounds for two jars. .304, .22, or 9 mil.”
“I was thinking bigger.”
Dominique raised one pierced eyebrow.
“It’s for our entire town.”
Dominique whistled. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
Dominique was an attractive Hispanic woman in her mid-twenties. Tattoos sleeved her muscled arms. Her black hair was shorn close to her scalp, and she wore paint-splattered overalls, combat boots, and black leather motorcycle gloves.
Ever since the Collapse, she’d been running a successful moonshine business. Hannah, however, was interested in more than getting drunk.
Hannah explained the town’s needs, Dominique nodding along, her lips pursed, a crease between her thick black brows. “It’s manageable. My still can produce ethanol up to 190 proof. I’d have to ramp production way up, take on an assistant or two. Or five. But it’s doable. Problem is, for the amounts you’re talking, I’d need more feed corn, more sugar—”
“We can supply it,” Hannah said, not one hundred percent certain that they could. That was a problem for another day, one she had faith they could figure out. “Give us a list. We can get you whatever you need. What do you want for it?”
“You got antibiotics or painkillers?”
“We might have something.”
Dominique took another swig of her own wares. “Honestly, what I want is something fresh. I’m sick and tired of eating out of cans, but I don’t got the time to pull seeds and hoe weeds.”
“You hoe the dirt. You pull weeds.”
She smirked. “Whatever.”
“We’re planting a community garden and building several greenhouses.”
“If you bring me salads, tomatoes, some strawberries, then I’m your girl. I’ll keep you flowing in biofuel like it’s the land of milk and honey.”
Hannah couldn’t keep the grin off her face as she thrust out her hand. “On behalf of Fall Creek, you have a deal.”
Dominique’s grip was strong as she flashed a grin of her own.
They shook hands and got to work on hammering out the details. Fifteen minutes later, they had a plan in place. Fall Creek farmers would now have the biodiesel they needed to fuel their tractors, and maybe there’d be enough left over for a few of the town’s diesel trucks and generators.
Either way, it was a huge win. And exactly what Hannah had hoped to achieve with Trade Day.
She’d found an elderly man who took prednisone for his arthritis willing to trade the last of her antibiotics for an additional six weeks’ worth of meds for Milo. She’d also bartered for a quarter of a tube of diaper cream for Charlotte.
Earlier in the afternoon, she’d checked on the kids: Milo was with Quinn and Ghost, and Charlotte was happily batting at baby toys in the Pack’ n’ Play that Molly had set up beside her booth.
The afternoon had turned gray, heavy clouds obscuring the sun, but that didn’t matter. It was a beautiful day.
Everywhere she looked, people seemed content, eager, even smiling. About a dozen of Reynoso’s security team walked among them, armed and watchful but relaxed, which kept the atmosphere tranquil.
At least, until the Community Alliance arrived.
They met as agreed inside the enclosed show arena, a large metal building with steel beams crisscrossing the high ceiling, still smelling of hay and manure.
Rows of stacked bleachers ringed a large fenced arena with a dirt floor. Barrels, more fencing, and hay bales were stacked against a half wall separating the arena and the stands.
She could almost feel the metal bench beneath her, Noah’s warm shoulder pressed against hers, inhaling the scent of hay, animals, and dirt mingled with popcorn and cotton candy. Two-year-old Milo giggling as he pointed at t
he animals—hogs, dairy cows, even llamas. Noah meeting Hannah’s gaze over Milo’s tousled head, his eyes shining with love for their son.
She blinked back the bittersweet memory, her throat tight.
There were no fairs anymore. No Noah, either. Only the difficult task at hand.
Mick Sellers and fifteen men and women from the Community Alliance had shown up, including the big fiery redhead named Flynn, who flanked Mick like a bodyguard.
Mick had to be in his mid-seventies, but his hair remained buzzed, and he carried himself with a military bearing, while Flynn was built like a sequoia tree, tall and burly, with thickly gnarled brows and a bushy beard that reached his chest.
On Mick’s other side stood Dallas Chapman, dressed in hunting camo, her skin the color of freshly turned earth, tight black coils springing from beneath her MSU Spartans winter hat.
The men behind them wore work boots, jeans, and canvas coats, and held rifles and shotguns. They were all armed, their postures stiff, their gazes hard and suspicious.
It wasn’t a good sign.
Bishop, Perez, and Hannah served as Fall Creek representatives. Reynoso was training the new recruits, while Dave, Wiggins, and Annette were busy ensuring Trade Day ran smoothly.
The others were engaged in various security-related tasks, both back home in Fall Creek and at the fairgrounds. Liam wasn’t back yet.
Flynn opened the conversation without preamble. “Three of our greenhouses were torn down in the last two days. Greenhouses we’d just built, at considerable effort and using most of our remaining seeds.”
“What?” Hannah asked, taken aback.
Flynn seethed, radiating hostility. “One of our barns was burned down last night. Jason Hanson’s fence was broken and half his cows released. It took two days to find them. At least his were left alive. Hugh Burley found six steers slaughtered this morning. Not butchered for meat, either. They were left where they lay, killed for sport.” His eyes flashed. “Or maybe revenge.”
Hannah’s mouth dropped open, speechless.
Who would do such a thing? Why kill animals and not eat them? Why destroy greenhouses planted with precious seeds? Destruction for no rational purpose. It made no sense.
“Why would anyone do that?” Bishop asked, echoing her thoughts.
Flynn leered at them. “You tell us.”
Perez bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“One of our farmers—Blake Hill—was found dead in his home the day before yesterday, a gunshot wound to his chest. Looks like he tried to defend his farm and was overrun.”
Hannah stared at him in horror. “That’s awful.”
Flynn glared at her. “You do a good job acting innocent, I’ll give you that.”
“That’s because we are.” She recalled Bishop telling her that this man had lost his wife during one of the militia’s raids. No wonder he was angry. This, though, was taking things to another level.
Tension thrummed through the air. Both sides glowered at each other with bitterness, resentment, and suspicion.
Perez grimaced. “You think it’s us?”
Dallas gave a disgusted snort. “If the shoe fits.”
“We had nothing to do with any of that!” Bishop said.
“You’ve already raided our towns and murdered our people. This is just more of the same.”
“Time for some payback, if you ask me,” one of Flynn’s people muttered. It was under his breath, but Hannah caught it. Her gut tightened in growing dread.
Fall Creek wanted to broker peace and unity, but the Alliance appeared to have zero interest in either. They teetered on the edge of violence.
One wrong step, and the whole thing would blow up in their faces.
26
Quinn
Day Eighty-Nine
“Don’t move!” Quinn cried.
She sprinted past a cluster of birch trees, staggering through thick underbrush, thorns snagging at her clothes, and burst into a small clearing.
She took in the scene in a fraction of a second. Her guts turned to water.
Milo huddled, backed against the trunk of a spruce tree.
A dozen dogs circled him, lurking between the trees, creeping closer and closer. The dogs stared at him, hunger rendering them fearless and bold, their heads up, ears cocked, muscles bunched and bulging as they prowled the perimeter.
They were gaunt, each rib in sharp relief, their once gentle faces pinched by desperation and that instinctive, relentless will to survive.
Some people had gone feral. It only made sense that dogs would, too.
Kill to survive. Eat to live. Every animal knew it; it was the law of nature.
They wouldn’t survive without prey. Today, Milo was that prey. They would’ve attacked Milo already—would’ve ripped his tiny body to shreds in seconds—if not for Ghost.
The fearless Great Pyrenees leapt in front of Milo, white fur bristling, wheeling to face each new threat, snarling a vicious warning to any dog who dared to sneak too close.
One on one, Ghost could take any of them. With his muscled torso and thick fur, he was twice the size of the next largest dog, a skinny barrel-chested Rottweiler.
They came at Ghost in twos and threes, never one alone. Snarling and barking, growling, lips peeled back to reveal razor-sharp canines.
As one charged his front, two more lunged in to nip at his ribs. Ghost whirled and snapped his jaws inches from their throats. They scampered back with startled yelps.
But they’d learned pack behavior. The dogs were working together, like wolves.
“Get out of here!” Quinn screamed. Fear and revulsion churning in her gut, she shifted her gun into one hand, picked up a large stick and hurled it at the nearest dog. “Get! Go away! Stop it!”
It struck a brown Pit Bull in the hind leg. The dog shied away with a whimpered snarl. A Golden Retriever who’d been circling the spruce tree to get behind Milo let out a frightened yelp and fled, scurrying south through a thick tangle of underbrush.
Quinn sprinted to Milo’s side. “Get behind me!”
Milo stared at her with sheer terror in his eyes. “Don’t hurt them.”
She thrust his small body behind hers and faced the snarling dogs. “Just a tiny problem with that, Small Fry. They very much want to hurt us.”
She felt little concern for herself, only the kid. She had to get him out of here.
The boughs of the spruce spread far above their heads, the branches too high to climb. The nearest trees were tall and skinny; their limbs would break beneath even Milo’s weight.
She risked a second to twist around the spruce’s trunk and glance behind them, blinking against her blurring, panicked vision.
Trees and bushes and more trees. Everything looked the same.
Savage relentless barking blasted her eardrums, vibrating through her body. The scent of coppery blood overwhelmed the smells of sap, pine needles, and decaying leaves.
She swung back around, pulled out her slingshot, aimed, and released a couple of steel balls. The dogs dodged and howled but didn’t retreat, growing even more aggressive.
Sticks and stones wouldn’t deter them. Her sling shot couldn’t take them down, either. If they attempted to run, they were dead meat. Ghost couldn’t stop all of them.
They could smell her fear, Milo’s fear. Even she could smell it—a sour metal tinge to her skin, her breath. Stay calm, think, figure it out. Think!
Dismay filled her as she lifted the Beretta in a two-hand grip. She felt the same as Milo. Even as they attacked, she dreaded killing them.
In so many ways, this wasn’t their fault. She understood their desperation, their hunger.
At the same time, she couldn’t let them hurt Milo. And Ghost? No freaking way.
A German Shepherd lurched forward, about to pounce upon Ghost from the right. Quinn fired. Missed. Fired again.
The round punched into the dog’s rib cage. The dog let out a howl as its hind legs sagged, and it coll
apsed.
She risked another glance around the tree, desperate for an escape. This time she saw it. “There’s an oak tree five yards behind us, a few degrees to the right. Low branches. Forked like a slingshot. You can climb it.”
Milo’s voice squeaked. “But what about you—”
“Run for it, Milo!”
“I’m not leaving—”
“Just do it!” she shouted.
Milo’s boots crunched dead leaves and twigs as he slipped around the spruce, footsteps thudding as he ran back toward the safety of the oak.
One Retriever caught sight of the fleeing boy and tore after him, teeth bared. Adrenaline spiking, Quinn fired and missed. They were so damn fast.
With a curse, she spun, trying to track ahead of the animal, and fired twice more in quick succession. One round slammed into the dog’s hind leg, and it fell not two feet from Milo as he scrambled for the lowest tree branch and climbed.
It took two more shots to kill it. She was running out of rounds.
Someone had to come to help, didn’t they? Wouldn’t the crowds at the fairgrounds hear the gunshots and come running? Her stomach sank as she remembered Reynoso’s firing range. No one would recognize the difference between those shots and Quinn’s.
They were on their own.
Four dogs lunged at Ghost at once, ripping and tearing. And then two more. Ghost spun and twisted and rolled, biting and snapping, hurling one off him only to have two more take its place, until they were a whirling blur of fur and teeth and savage growls.
Frantic, Quinn peered through the iron sights, aiming for one dog, but the attack was so vicious, so fast, she might hit Ghost.
With a moan of frustration, she shifted her aim, exhaled, and fired at one of the pit bulls crouched at the edge of the trees. At least she could make sure it didn’t join the fight, too.
Her aim was true; the pit bull fell.
Her stomach clenched, tears stinging her eyes.
A Labrador fell out of the pile of writhing bodies with a yelp, staggering backward as blood poured from a wound in its neck.
